If We Could Be Heroes

A King of Fighters fanfiction

Disclaimer: Set in an alternate era & mainly an Iori fic centred around an imaginary gf, so u can consider this a mary-sue. eewww But anyway, just a exploration of what-ifs and what I think it would be like. Mature themes and language. Take it with a pinch of salt and maybe we'll have some fun. I don't own any KOF characters. Most unfortunately not Yagami.

'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself –

nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror

which paralyzes needed efforts

to convert retreat into advance.'

Franklin D. Roosevelt

Prelude: Another Hell

His fingers ran over the ground, nails digging into the soft, deep debris and scratching, as he tried to move. Prostrate on the ground; he had no clue why, where or when.

Not praying…

Not begging.

Never.

His legs felt leaden and numb, pulled down by this oppressive weight, and as though someone had drained out everything in them. He knew they were still there, knew how to use them—but they didn't respond to his brain's signals. Depending solely on his arms, he dragged himself across the thick mass of dirt that he was resting on, the only thing that seemed solid.

Everywhere in the darkness was swirling, thick mist, that looked more like smoke. Suddenly he started choking on something at the back of his mouth, and his hands immediately flying up to his throat, fingers clawing with his nails like a beast possessed. Soon he was strangling himself, while convulsing on the thick layer of dirt, upper body jerking agitatedly while his limp lower part barely moved, and only shifting to the thumping within his chest. All he could see was violet, heat and light, dancing in front of him as the flames engulfed his head, burning up those crimson strands.

The man was feeling fear, anger and pain, vile emotions surging in him like the smoke around, and he knew he had unknown energy somewhere, a seemingly new, fresh source that would help him… pull him out of this torture. But he wasn't going to take it, he wasn't going to accept the help. Instead he would keep jerking erratically in this void, quaking as though he was afraid that imaginative glob inside his throat would kill him.

As if it would kill him…

He stopped as abruptly as he had started, eyes wide open and jaw dropped. Then, very slowly, his hands loosened, and he took them off his neck, still clawed-up. Again they felt as though they didn't belong on his body. His eyes travelled from the dark void around him to his long, coarse fingers. Even in the twisted darkness he could still see the dried up blood, the sticky crimson on his skin and under his nails. It was an amazingly familiar sight, and he was used to seeing those powerful hands stained. He glanced down to his lower body, expecting to see his pants, belt strap, buckle and all.

The sight made his heart stop.

Battered, scarred and kicked in, a deformed mess that had fresh blood and cuts so deep that the strangely pearl-white bones were visible.

Then the pain hit.

Tsunamis of anguish and hurt, seemed to fall on his pathetic form, ringing inside and all around him. … he couldn't remember screaming so hard or so loud before… and not hearing anything…

He jerked and woke up, bolting upright in his bed. Strands of soggy hair covered his pallid face, and he could feel the irregular heartbeat, so audible it seemed to fill up the entire room. His quick breaths were loud and shallow, not taking in enough oxygen for demanding lungs. Still gasping like an asthmatic, he forced his breathing to fall silent, and purposefully eased it up, taking slow, soft breaths.

At least that wasn't a violent one, he thought, fighting the urge to close his eyes even though his long lashes were fluttering drowsily. He tried to cough, but instead a strangled retch escaped from his sore throat, almost throwing his guts up. Lifting the covers off his bare chest, Iori headed for the kitchen, a small room in the apartment that consisted of few accessories. Shoving the empty beer cans aside, he lifted the kettle, judging the amount of its contents by its weight. There seemed to be considerable amount, he decided, pouring whatever it contained into a chipped cup as he ran the base of his palm over his drenched forehead.

He could feel something mixing with the layer of perspiration, blending with the sweat to form a disgusting paste.

With amazing self-control, Iori drank the liquid, feeling it run through his parched throat, keeping his eyes frozen on the peeling ceiling paint. He replaced the stained plastic cup on the table, hand spasming.

Then he stepped into the bathroom, forgetting to switch on the lights.

In the dark he grasped the closet handle, flinging it open.

It could freeze you like ice, and shock welled up horror—the silent killer of peace.

He stared at the dried blood on his face and hair. Scars adorned his neck, glistening in the early light of dawn. Iori Yagami grit his teeth until it felt like his jaw would crack.

Yet another day. Yet another hell.